


Before the Sun Finds Us

by RevocablePeril (PerihelionIcarus)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, It's Just Gay Revelry, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerihelionIcarus/pseuds/RevocablePeril
Summary: Marius has never been to a masked ball before. Courfeyrac is appalled, and aims to remedy that immediately.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 16
Kudos: 14
Collections: Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2020)





	Before the Sun Finds Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For the prompt: Courfeyrac and Marius attend a masquerade ball and dance together
> 
>  _Warning_ : use of some antiquated gendered language.

Courfeyrac gently places his pen on the table, folds his hands, and looks at him aghast. “I’m so very sorry. Marius, please, would you repeat yourself?”

“I rarely am out so late?” Marius says.

“The previous sentence.”

“I have never been to a ball.”

Courfeyrac turns in his chair to face him properly. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Every further day I spend in your company, you find a new way to astonish and thrill me.”

“Is it such a shock? Surely you know me well enough by now.”

“Do you have any engagements this coming Sunday? I ask for no reason in particular.”

Marius busies himself with the corner of his blanket. “No engagements, but I must politely decline.”

Courfeyrac scoffs at that. “What grievance do you have with _pleasure_ , Marius?”

“None,” he says, though he winces as he realizes how legitimate Courfeyrac’s jape is. “It is not my idea of pleasure, is all.”

“One night of revelry surely will not destroy even a countenance as delicate as yours.” He thinks for a moment. “Consider it a favour for me.”

Marius groans. He does not enjoy the idea of being in a hall filled with hundreds of people. He had heard of the masquerades for the elite at the Opéra when he was younger, and they sounded like uncomfortable affairs at best. ‘Revelry’ certainly is not the word he would use. Besides, even if he did want to go, there is a more pressing problem.

“I do not know how to dance,” Marius says.

“Five evenings with the finest instructor in Paris should remedy that.”

“Instructor?”

Courfeyrac stands, performs a perfect curtsy, and extends a hand to him. “Free of charge.”

“Do I have the option of refusing?”

“You are free to do as you please,” Courfeyrac says. “But I shall be going, and I will return home in the small hours, loud and thoroughly muddled, unless I have a friend there to put a stop to it, of course.”

“I cannot imagine the bourgeois take too kindly to muddlement.”

“Even they might surprise you. But it is not for them that you go to the masquerade, Marius. It is the _ambiance_. The carousing, the anonymity, to knock your shoulder against those whose names you do not know and who will never know yours. The ball is the night during which you may do as you would without worrying about silly things like dignity. And you, of all people, would do best with such a night.” He wiggles the fingers of his extended hand.

Marius stares at the hand, thinks for a full five seconds, and takes it. “If it is for only one night,” he says, as Courfeyrac’s smile begins to spread, “that is fine. But do not hold me responsible when my inadequate dancing at a ball reflects poorly on you.”

“A student is only as inadequate as his teacher,” Courfeyrac says.

He takes Marius’ free arm and draws it around his own waist. They are standing quite close together, Courfeyrac’s breath on his cheek, and Marius knows there is no possibility he could do this with some stranger, masked or otherwise, if even being so close to _Courfeyrac_ makes his knees feel so suddenly unstable.

“Have you not something else to do?” Marius says, desperately looking for an exit. He nods at the abandoned writing on Courfeyrac’s table.

Courfeyrac waves it off. “Nothing that cannot wait for such a momentous occasion as a man’s first waltz. Now, I am your lady. Lift your chin, stand close, and follow my count.”

Marius hears _I am your lady_ and little else. He is suddenly afflicted with a series of perplexing images that pass across his mind’s eye, and as such he does not even notice when Courfeyrac begins to turn, dragging Marius with him like a limp coat.

“I neglected to mention the first lesson. Dance requires movement,” Courfeyrac says.

“I am sorry,” Marius says, mind jolting back to the present. “I am not usually such a poor student.”

“Not to worry, I recall when you were poor and a student, and you have shown tremendous growth since.”

“Two inches, to be precise,” Marius replies.

Courfeyrac responds with a laugh, and Marius wishes he could find witticisms far more often for it.

“When you mentioned there would be an element of costume, you did not warn me it would be this,” Marius says, several days later, eyeing with trepidation the ensemble that Courfeyrac holds aloft.

“I also recall you saying, I quote, ‘I’ll leave that to your whims’, and you should be grateful I have taken your preference into account at all. There were many costumes at the rental which would have looked quite spectacular on your figure, but were in shades far too exciting for your tastes.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at him.

“Red?”

“Red.”

Marius sighs and looks over the clothing. All of it is black, the long cloak, a domino mask, and a simple cocked hat of the sort worn perhaps a half-century ago. It is tolerable for a night, he supposes.

“And what of your costume?” Marius asks.

“Modest,” Courfeyrac says, and gestures at his bed and what appears to be a sailor’s ensemble, complete with its short coat and long necktie. “I would normally wear something in proper mockery of the noble, but I’m afraid it would draw too much attention to myself, and this is your evening.”

“You are aware you will draw more attention all the same.”

“Once again, the man proves himself either humble or blind.”

“What?”

Courfeyrac laughs and thrusts the bundle of clothes into Marius’ arms. “Never mind. Go put it on. I will help with the mask.”

Marius emerges fifteen minutes later, feeling like he is drowning in fabric, but Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly at the result.

“Nearly there,” he says, and steps toward Marius with the mask.

Marius holds it in position on his face as Courfeyrac reaches around, knotting the ribbon behind his head. His fingers move deftly, and it is clear to Marius that he is not the first person for whom Courfeyrac has done this. His hands linger a moment after tying the knot and Marius can feel some adjustment of his hair. Marius watches him as he works. Courfeyrac’s eyes are focused, looking all around his head, fixing, placing strands where they ought to look more presentable. The fading light catches his cheek and the curve of his jaw, and Marius is reminded of why so many people who meet Courfeyrac are so quickly infatuated. 

Courfeyrac notices him staring, meets his eyes, and smiles. He continues with his fiddling, holding his gaze, until the feeling slows, and Courfeyrac is merely resting his hand on the back of his head with a contemplative expression. Marius is suddenly aware of how warm it is in this cloak, for the colour rises to his face and remains there as they maintain the gaze. His glance flicks, quickly, to Courfeyrac’s mouth. His lips part, and Marius is forced to look away before he acknowledges anything within himself. 

Courfeyrac starts, regains his composure, and the moment is broken. He adjusts the folds of the cloak. He presses it against Marius' shoulders and smooths it down, before taking a small step back at last to admire his work.

Marius is wearing so many more articles of clothing than he is used to, and shifts uncomfortably. “I must look foolish,” he says.

Courfeyrac clicks his tongue at him. “Foolish is the last word I would use, my friend.” He tucks back a stray hair that had fallen in Marius’ face. “Have I not told you how becoming the colour black is on you, though somber as it is? _You_ are the mysterious young man that every spinster—and bachelor of the twilight persuasion, let us not be exclusive of the gentlemen—dreams of meeting at the Odéon.”

“Surely that’s yourself, Courfeyrac.”

He grins. “Mysterious? Not for me. No mask could conceal this.” Courfeyrac begins to improvise a dance—if one could call it dancing, indecent as it is—and offers Marius his hand partway through. Marius smiles despite himself. He takes the hand and goes through the practiced motions, only making a single misstep, forward when he should have stepped back, causing him to collide with Courfeyrac’s chest and nearly treading on his toes.

“It’s an improvement, at the least,” Courfeyrac says, catching his shoulders. “And for a misstep, a convenient one. I would not be upset to find myself in this situation, were I your dance partner at the ball.”

Marius firmly and decidedly does not think about it.

“We are going to be late, if you do not get changed soon,” he says instead.

“Fashionably so,” Courfeyrac says with a grin, but he steps out of Marius’ space and retreats to where his sailor’s costume is laid out on the bed, and Marius’ cloak is still too hot and his mask far too slim to hide the colour on his face.

The Théatre de l’Odéon is nothing like Marius expected it would be, and he knows this while they are still several yards away for the noise, light, and throng of people that spills out its grand entrance. Any elite affair would be far less raucous than the scene before him.

Marius turns to Courfeyrac and is distracted a moment by the playful tilt of his hat, the low-looping sailor’s necktie around his collar, and the outline of the mask against his cheekbone. He shakes himself. “How many people are usually in attendance to one of these masquerade events?”

“Hundreds, perhaps a thousand on a warm Sunday.”

“Who are they?”

“Who lives in Paris?”

“What?”

“It is the same answer to both questions.”

“Oh.” Marius relaxes. Without the snobbish atmosphere of the elite he had expected, perhaps it would not be quite so bad, after all.

They pay their sous when they arrive and make their way into the already-bustling hall. It is _immense_ , the ground floor filled with what indeed looks like hundreds of masked and costumed dancers, young and old, dressed in all manner of disguises, circling around the room in _quadrille_ while the musicians play on. Marius’ gaze travels up to see three levels of upper corridors, with spectators, revellers, and what appears to be some acts of indecency.

Courfeyrac steps to the front of him, towards the throng, his grin wide and arms spread open as if he greets his most familiar friend in the world. For a moment Marius worries that he has spotted Enjolras or Combeferre in the crowd before realizing this is almost certainly not how either would spend a Sunday night. Courfeyrac instead walks through the dancing crowd towards no one in particular, stepping gracefully out of the way of a wide skirt here, a stray leg there. He turns, motioning for Marius when he realizes he is not following. Marius approaches dubiously and not nearly with the same finesse.

Around him is all manner of people. Young, old, men, women, and those too concealed by their costumes to know one way or the other. The masks and clothing conceals not only faces, but status and all else Marius might have worried about in a place such as this.

“Remarkable, is it not?” Courfeyrac asks over his shoulder, as Marius looks around the room. “Few things unite all the people of Paris like the desire for a moment’s escape.”

Marius watches a dancing pair clad in very bright colours laugh as they twirl nearby. “I haven’t a clue who anybody is.”

“That duo? _Isabella_ , and a man who regrettably believes himself her _Silvio_ for the evening. Now come. I dressed you so fashionably to be looked upon, not do the looking.”

Marius stares for a short while longer anyway. The musicians conclude their piece to enthusiastic applause and begin another, and Marius turns to ask Courfeyrac how he is meant to find a partner, only he is not where he was standing a moment ago, and Marius is surrounded by a moving wave of strangers with not a single clue where he might have gone.

It is not ideal.

He searches the tops of heads—all getting ready for another quadrille—scanning for the jauntily-positioned cap, only to discover the prevalence of them, as well as every other hat style imaginable, within the crowd. The dance begins, a jester all but treads on his toe, and Marius finds himself forced to duck and weave, stringing together a litany of _pardon_ and _terribly sorry_ and _excuse my footing_ until he can make his way to the corner of the room, only to discover that the room is curved and there is little space to remove himself from the dance floor. He manages to find a space along the wall, between a statue of Molière and a man dressed (truly irreverently; appallingly) as Napoléon. Marius sequesters himself here and begins his search anew.

Marius had only looked away a few seconds, and his friend seems to have disappeared entirely. Perhaps he had found a dance partner himself, and expects Marius to do the same. Although—no, Courfeyrac knows his character well enough to know he is unlikely to speak to a stranger without being spoken to first. Perhaps, then, he found a partner and was too occupied to remember.

His shoulders slump somewhat. Marius cannot be surprised by the speed at which Courfeyrac is able to court those he has just met, as he was once (more or less) victim to it. It must be a rare occurrence indeed for anyone to meet Courfeyrac’s gleaming eyes, hear his quick wit, and not be charmed by him at once. Marius should not feel colder at his absence, but, then again, all people do when they step away from the hearth.

Marius considers climbing to one of the upper levels. If he cannot spot Courfeyrac from there, at the very least he can do so in relative peace. The man in Napoléon’s garb laughs throatily at something, and his mind is made up for him.

There is more applause as the piece concludes. The stairs leading up are in the opposite corner, and Marius begins once more begins his ordeal of crossing the room without great disturbance. He is comforted, a little bit, by the anonymity given to him by the mask while he likely looks foolish in avoiding treading on boots or skirts.

That alone is not enough, though, when he turns briefly to the stage as the first note of the new number rings out on the violins, and collides with a stranger in front of him.

“I am so very sorry,” he says, catching himself.

The stranger is a _Chicard_ who looks lightly stunned and less lightly muddled, and she holds a full bottle in her hand. He looks around for a moment and realizes she has no partner. The next notes on the strings play and the dance begins around them. It would be polite for him to ask for the dance. It would be what he came here for, to ask for the dance. She laughs as he begins to form the words, anxious in spite of his concealed identity.

“There you are,” the familiar voice says from behind him, and Marius could cry with relief. Courfeyrac takes his hand and glides smoothly into the beginning of the waltz, seemingly unbothered. He acknowledges the lady, who truly seems content to return to her bottle.

Marius joins him in step. “You do not know how you have just saved me.”

“As it turns out, your mask does little to hide your emotions,” Courfeyrac says. “Where have you been?”

“Searching for you,” Marius replies. He draws Courfeyrac’s arm around his waist and steps onto tiptoe, as he was taught the waltz would go. “I thought you had found yourself a partner for the evening.”

“Partner? I suppose he stands before me, now.” He takes Marius’ waist in turn. “Earlier I had only stepped aside to compliment a pirate on her breeches, and when I turned back you were gone.”

“I should have waited. Although, in looking for you I met Napoléon by the likeness of Molière. Neither were so impressive.”

Courfeyrac laughs heartily at that. “An admission you would have shocked yourself with, not two years ago.” They spin, and Courfeyrac joins their free hands above their heads.

“Is it...acceptable that we dance like this?”

“Look around you, my friend. Everybody is nobody. The Odéon is a space of our own.”

Marius does. People pay them little mind. Over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, _Isabella_ takes the masculine lead in her own waltz. Marius returns his attention to Courfeyrac, their chests pressed close and noses inches apart. Marius’ step falters. Courfeyrac’s arm tightens to steady him, and he wonders if Courfeyrac can feel his heartbeat falter as well.

There are still too many people on the floor, and they dance too closely for Marius’ taste, but with their hands joined and Courfeyrac’s eyes on him, Marius allows the uneasiness to fall away. All at once they are alone together in his room once more, Courfeyrac teaching him how to perform the steps by the light of the candle. Courfeyrac hums the melody, smiles when he gets the steps correct, guides him gently with his hands when he gets them wrong. They draw together, apart, and together, over and over again, lost in their own space and time, and Marius manages, somehow, to not make a total fool of himself.

That is the first dance. During the second, Courfeyrac looks less at his feet for fear that Marius will step on them, and during the third, their eyes remain locked for the entire piece.

“As your teacher I am proud,” Courfeyrac says, as they applaud during a break, “but as your partner I am captivated.”

There is no way Marius can find a way to respond to such a statement without pouring out the contents of his heart, so they carry on dancing until they lose track of how many times it has been, and Marius tires of being on tiptoe.

They make their way up the stairs and into the upper corridor, warm from the dance and the fullness of the room. Courfeyrac has removed his jacket so he wears only the low-cut shirt with the loose looping tie, and Marius at once feels warmer.

The corridor is emptier, but more raucous. Wine flows, the spectators guffaw, people drag their boots on the ground, and some have procured ink with which to vandalize the figures from the country’s past. They stop beside the large bust of Louis-Phillipe, now overlooking the dance floor with a hideously scrawled moustache. The corridor is empty here, perhaps out of the fear of accusation for the vandalism. Courfeyrac simply laughs and slaps the marble on the shoulder, rudely and irreverently.

“I should have thought to bring my own ink. I might have drawn on him the crown he deserves,” he says, making a truly vulgar gesture with his hand on his breeches that Marius is unsure if he wants to understand.

He leans up against the statue and slides to be seated on the ground. Marius takes the place beside him, grateful for a few moments off his feet.

“I do not believe I’ve done so much activity in my life,” Marius says.

Courfeyrac lays a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes, Marius, you make statements that make me wonder how you have managed to live until the present moment.”

“I have told you all there is to know of my life.”

“I jest.” Courfeyrac shakes him. “I am merely glad to add to it as much as I am able.”

He tries to imagine who he might be if he had never met Courfeyrac, and it falls on Marius all at once all the ways in which he would be lacking were it not for him. His job, his home, his political leaning, nearly every person to whom he speaks, even his clothes—all of it is because of Courfeyrac. He cannot fathom a present moment without Courfeyrac’s influence, nor can he envision a future at the side of anyone else.

Marius wants to tell him all of it. He limits himself to a few words, instead. “You have. You truly, truly have.”

Courfeyrac meets his eyes and gives him a gentle smile, as if he can hear the weight behind Marius’ words without them being said, and Marius is doomed to the way it makes him feel until Courfeyrac looks away. “Your dancing has progressed quite a lot this evening,” he says.

“A good teacher and a desire to look reasonably competent are the secrets.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “I suppose you did have a fine teacher.”

“The finest.”

“His toes suffered greatly for the pursuit of education.”

“I trod on them _twice_.”

“And yet they persevered.” He brings his hand to his chest in mock solemnity.

“How very brave,” Marius intones.

Courfeyrac’s arm extends towards him, and the next thing he knows, the hair he had laid so neatly is being vigorously dishevelled. Of course, Marius must return the favour, presentability be damned. He tips the hat off Courfeyrac’s head and ruffles his hair to noises of indignation. They struggle for a while before eventually withdrawing their hands, panting as though they had danced again. Courfeyrac’s head is nearly a perfect sphere of curls, he beams, his eyes are alight with mischief, and Marius knows what he must do. 

Perhaps it is the moment. Perhaps it is the silence of the upper corridor, or the shade cast by the vandalized Louis-Philippe, or the masks, or the loop of Courfeyrac’s tie slipping ever lower. Perhaps it is the way Courfeyrac does not blink or move as Marius lays his hand on his neck. But in that instant, Marius knows he must kiss him, so he does.

Courfeyrac’s lips are warm. It is a fact that at first surprises him, but just as soon falls into the category of instinctual knowledge. Of course they are warm, like everything else about the man to which they belong. They are warm, and full, and Marius wants to linger on them until the Théâtre is empty and the musicians are silent.

Then he registers that Courfeyrac has gone still, unmoving, though his mouth yields and he does not draw back. Marius opens his eyes to see Courfeyrac’s are closed, and when Marius tries to pull away, Courfeyrac takes his face between his hands and pursues him so they do not part. His thumb brushes down Marius’ cheek, his lips press even closer, and every action Marius has ever taken in his life has been correct, for it has culminated in this.

“That was unexpected,” Courfeyrac says when they separate, as the cellos echo alone on the level below them. He swallows and smiles weakly. “Has the essence of the domino merely overtaken you for the night?”

Marius looks down at his costume, which he had forgotten he was wearing. He shakes his head. “It might be some...catalyst,” he says, and there is no returning to the relationship they had had five minutes ago, so he continues. “But my feelings are—have been for a long time, I believe—true.”

“I did not suspect.” Marius has never seen Courfeyrac look quite so shy when he speaks, and it makes his heart ache. “I wanted, but I did not hope.”

“I did not realize,” Marius says.

Courfeyrac laughs. “That is quite like you.”

“Were your hair not already unkempt, I would make it so again.”

“Leave it. Dishevelment is always evidence of an evening well spent, and tonight that is true more than usual.”

Marius begins to fix his own hair to hide the colour in his face. He picks up his own hat from where it had tumbled off in their scuffle and conceals the mess as best he can.

“Would you like to dance again?” Courfeyrac asks. “Stepping onto the floor properly this time, as partners. I have learned very much in a short amount of time, and a little revelry will do us both good, I think.” He makes a move to stand, but pauses and lays a hand on Marius’ cheek. “I am glad you were so bold. We will speak more seriously of this later.”

Truthfully, Marius is still reeling. His feet still ache. But in his mind’s eye he sees the two of them spinning around their room, arms around waists, attention paid to nothing but each other, and there is nothing he would like more for the moment. “Then let us revel,” he says, and feels himself becoming more enamored each second as Courfeyrac presses a kiss to his cheek, takes his hand, and leads him back to the dance floor below.

Marius does not know what time of night it is when they finally leave the Odéon, only that most patrons are already gone and even Courfeyrac cannot conceal his fatigue. The cab driver barely gives them a nod as they climb inside. They start to move, and Marius realizes how impatient he is to reach their home and lay his head upon a pillow.

“It has been some time since last I had a night like this,” Courfeyrac says, and stifles his yawn.

“It was not as bad as I had imagined it would be,” Marius replies. It is the truth, getting lost in a throng of strangers notwithstanding. He thinks about the moment behind the statue and flushes. “Pleasantly surprising.”

Courfeyrac’s grin spreads lazily. “I am glad to hear it.”

Marius can feel himself leaning towards him again, drawn to the smile like it is the sun. He glances out—the street is still dark, save for the lamplight, and there are a few people making their way down the road. Were they to look in now, they might see two figures intimately close, but little else.

“I do not know what has made you so bold tonight,” Courfeyrac says, voice soft and breath warm against his lips, “but if the ball introduced something of the spirit of the bacchanalian into you I would very much like to take you to another.”

“Perhaps it is just the disguise.”

“You may confirm or disprove that for yourself now, if you wish.” Courfeyrac reaches a hand out and curves it around the back of Marius’ head. Slowly, he pulls the end of the ribbon loose and lifts the mask free from his face, then removes his own.

 _There he is._ Courfeyrac is beautiful. Marius has always thought so, but in revealing it from beneath the mask it becomes all the more apparent, especially now, when his face is so close and Courfeyrac is tired enough that any airs he might affect have fallen. His expression is open, and he speaks to Marius the way he does in the dark of the room they share, moments before they fall asleep.

Marius’ own face feels exposed after the many comforting hours of anonymity, but he feels no resolve to pull away. “I disprove it,” he says, and leans in for another kiss.

It is quick, not more than a few moments on each other’s lips, but Courfeyrac pulls back from it with his eyes closed and a quieter look on his face than Marius has seen before. At first he is concerned he has done something incorrectly in his inexperience, but the side of Courfeyrac’s mouth quirks upward and he lets out a satisfied sigh.

“I shall never need wine again,” Courfeyrac says, and Marius can’t help the giddy laugh that escapes him.

They say no more after that, exhausted from surprise, emotion, and words as they are. It will not be a long trip to Courfeyrac’s rooms, so Marius makes the effort to remain awake, but allows Courfeyrac to lay his head on his shoulder for the moment. Marius yawns. It is late, or early, depending on how one defines a day, and the sun will almost certainly find them waking in the afternoon tomorrow. It may not have been an altogether wise decision to remain out until the small hours when Marius must work on Tuesday.

The cab rolls on down the road, jostling Courfeyrac’s head as they rattle over some roughness in the road. Marius brings an arm up to steady him, and Courfeyrac shifts closer with a noise of contentment. Courfeyrac is warm, his hair disorderly, and Marius is so very, very fond of him. Perhaps dancing and attending masquerade balls and having late nights every so often would not be so disagreeable, if all of them should end like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays and thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! I did do a bunch of research on bals masqués and dances for this (two subjects I know next to nothing about), but had to play fast and loose a little bit with, like, social history. The absolute mayhem of the Théâtre de l'Odéon and the vandalized bust of Louis-Phillipe are very real, though. Most of the costume names in italics are Commedia dell'arte stock characters.


End file.
